Mello: the London Remix
by A.Pseudonym
Summary: A foulmouthed OC's experimental drabble on a slutty Mello in the remixed London night. WARNING: serious head-wreck inside. Yaoi-esque, I guess, but nothing explicit.


_A/N: __An experimental pretto-prose-poetry thing. Rated for language – and I mean it! Narrator is an old OC of mine with a notoriously foul mouth. His ' darkness' has nothing to do with the comic or game by the same name. Also, Mello is totally gay in this, but I suppose that comes as a surprise to no-one. As for sex, it's talk and no action._

Mello – the London Remix

Just look at him. See that drunken confidence stride, cat-thin, shadow-black, under the blue neon of the big city. A native of nowhere and everywhere. Diamond hard knowledge; seen everything yet questionably legal. Jail-bait, fully aware. Sex on leather-clad legs and so fucking hot for himself. Soaked in women's glances, basking in it, but that feather collar is telling me another story. But apart from the feminine streak, and the flamboyant costume party crash, he is me at that age. Sentimental.

For all the swagger in the London night, he's not getting served. No ID and his face a poor liar. Our proximity at the bar has me picking up his radiated fury, me not even the empath. It's my discarded youth that has me take pity.

"What are you after kid?" The 'kid' part is unwelcome. I don't give a shit. "Take it or leave it, blondie."

"Champagne."

Fucking comedian.

"Glass of white wine, fruit based drink for the lady, that it? Or will you have a pint?"

He hides his confusion well. "Whatever."

Bartender doesn't question me. He knows me to see. I leave the kid's pint on the counter and head back to my seat. He'll follow. Let him. I'm bored; it's a slow night. Had all the women in here and it's pissing down outside.

"So, what you want for this then?" Trace of an accent. On the sofa beside me, boots on a stool, leaning back. Not a trace of shame.

"A laugh, so we're quits. Cheers."

The first of my trio of whisky chasers with that. I can see the thievery coming from the moon and—quite out of character—let it slide. Worth it just for the look on his face and the cough attack that has him deep scarlet with furious embarrassment. Furious everything, this one.

"Yeah, s'not for kids."

"I'm no _kid_! Fuck you!"

"In you wet dreams little man."

He would go but I slip him a fraction of darkness and he is a sponge.

"Who the hell are you then?" His eyes like scanners.

"I'll tell you who I'm not. I'm not a mark and I'm not a pedo, so lay off the eyes."

"What the hell are you talking about? Like I would, you're fucking... old!"

When I was 15 I thought 29 was the brink of the grave too.

"So stop staring."

He can't and I know he can't, because I'm the one holding his gaze. Like epoxying someone's arse to the seat and tell them to get up; they can try, but it will look ridiculous and end in failure.

I let go when he's suitably riled. Down my other chaser and watch the crowd. Sex and violence waiting to happen. Every night the same. Perhaps it's time to change the record.

"So, what will I call you then?" he presses, unbalanced.

"You won't."

"Fine. You're not getting my name either." Childish, but then he's a child.

"You keep your nose clean, goldilocks."

Time to be off; this place bores me.

I reach for my wallet outside to check the funds prior taxi. My pocket is empty. Rain-soaked within seconds, not impressed.

"Looking for this?"

The little shit is asking for it. Before he knows it's happening, he's against the wall and my wallet back in my pocket. Puts a brave face on it, but I dose him with enough darkness to make him quiver.

"A-alright, fuck it! Can't you take a fucking joke? Sorry, okay!"

Out of practice apologising; I can see he has to rip the unfamiliar phrase out by force.

I flip it from cold to hot; make him sweat. His feet don't touch the ground and still he fucking undulates. Hormones in confinement. Pressure the cause of explosions. A slick toy, but so are a lot these days. Doesn't make me any younger. I drop him.

"Go home, little man."

"What home?"

Freewheeling; makes sense. He's all perpendicular lines and angles, gravitation and insecurity pulling down. I'm not going to offer. I pull a car and get in. I'm slow with the door. He's a lit streak of oil on the asphalt. Bad idea; a leech is not a pet. A vampire bat though—perhaps I have blood to spare.

I have the taxi drop me by the garage on the corner. Not a scrap of food in my gaff. Petrol stink and night bleached strip lights. Intoxicated lonelies fluttering around this oasis of broken dreams and sausage-rolls. So base, so real. Faded and glitterfree big city small hours. Little diva hovers by the door like he might catch common.

I get two rolls because I'm hungry. Pin light eyes follow my every move. When I reach the check-out, he's there, dropping a bar of chocolate on top. High-cocoa luxury shite. Pushing it right to the edge, but what do you know, tonight he gets lucky.

-

"You're getting none and you're gone by morning." I unlock the door. "You steal and I will find you. I'll rip your fingers off one by one."

The darkness says I mean it and his shut mouth agrees to the terms.

"Yours is the sofa."

I dump the rolls on the coffee table and dig into the fridge for a beer. Confusion as to motives fills the living room with silent footsteps. Is he not used to not being used? Back out there, and he's taking liberties with my drinks cabinet. The world is greener to him than I thought.

"That's your lot." It's a very generous measure. "Make it last."

I can see the contemplation of knocking back, and the memory of the way his throat was torn up. He sips it. I eat and he walks the room, looking with his hands.

"If you break it, you buy it. 'It' being something you don't want."

He gets the message, shoves a spindly thumb in a pocket and hangs on to his glass as it drags him around the walls. I flick the TV on, dumb late night music vids. Inconsequential background. Tour over.

"What is it?" Roll in hand, boots on leather, he sits on the armrest.

"Feet off my sofa. BLT. That or nothing."  
"Disgusting."

But half of it is gone and the boots are dangling over the floor. I sink back. It's good to be home.

"So, still don't want to tell me your name?" Sofa cushion dips. Warm whisky breath, feather collar tickling my neck. He is looking with his hands again.

"I told you. Keep 'em to yourself."

"So what do you want?"

"Peace and quiet."

"Picked the wrong man then."

Blasé voice, eyes sparking mischief. Figures himself irresistible. Unwraps his chocolate like it means something.

"You're not a man though."

"I told you, I'm no fucking kid! I'm eighteen!"

"No, you're not." I see the lie in his eyes. "Tell me the truth."

It shocks him when he does. "I'm sixteen next month."

"Where you from?" He's not from London. Just breezing through and stirring up shit.

"Somewhere else." He bites the chocolate and tries to hook my eyes.

"And I guess that's where you're heading too?"

"Damn straight."

Why is he trying so hard to impress? I doubt it's his usual style. Perhaps it's because he recognises the darkness for what it is; not fully human. Otherness. It intrigues him.

He gets up, strikes a pose. "I'm going to catch Kira."

"Kira? That Japanese serial killer?"  
"He's going down." Still playing rock star. "I am Mello! You do well to remember my name." Pointing at me, all dramatic like. Entertaining.

"Are you? So mellow the fuck out then."

"No, it's... Ah, yeah. Funny." Sarcasm. But he's going to get that a lot, with such a tremendously ill-suiting name.

"Sit."  
"I'm not your dog."But he sits. Of course his sits.

He's got the taste for the whisky now. It's good whisky. He's digging around my eyes for answers. He sees only black. He says, "You're fucking weird, you know that?"

"How do you know I'm not a killer too?" And no smile.

"I can handle myself."

"Is that right?"

I'm doing him a favour, freezing him in place with my eyes and bringing my hands to his neck. Not for harm, just for a lesson. He's too young to be this careless. But I lose grip on those slippery blue eyes for a second, and there is a metal click by my head. He pulled a gun on me? Impressive.

It's fifty-fifty how it goes, but his luck wins out again. I choose words.

"Drop the gun." Not a request, not a suggestion. And not delivered on the rocks, but heated and sweetened to go down easy. Gunmetal against table wood and his arms around my neck as he curves up. In the fraction of a heart-beat before I pull back, I taste chocolate and whisky and angry, horny youth.

"This is the last time I tell you: I'm not interested in your bony arse. Come back when you grow some tits." Best paint it black and white for him so it computes.

"Bloody homophobe."

"No. If I was a homophobe, your face would be broken."

My fingertips over his cheek and all the mixed messages has him in knots of confusion. Did I say was too old for toys? I did, didn't I. But what the hell; there's no harm. Nothing getting fucked tonight but his mind. He can take it. Food, drink, a roof over his head this godawful night; he owes me some amusement.

"So, how is a kid like you going to catch a killer?"

I take his gun off the table and make myself comfortable.

"Give that back!"

"You're not pulling a weapon on me in my own home. You can have it back when you leave."

"So what if I'm leaving now?"

"You'd have to get up from the sofa to start with." Which he won't, because I give him a little more juice. I have never seen such a slut for darkness. It goes straight to his brain, and finds it on holiday behind the laced-up leather of his fly.

"Tsk. Whatever. I'm going to start in America. And not with useless cops either."

"You're going to the US? You have the cash for that?" Smile faltering. No, I didn't think so. Gives me an idea. "You want to earn it?"

"You think I'm a whore?" But I have his full attention now.

"If I'd fucked you and given you a score, you would have taken it. I think most people are whores, giving the right circumstances."

"Are you?"

"At your age, sure, I knew some rich married women."

No need for that now. My boss pays me an obscene amount of money. Seduction, intimidation, and human lie-detection, courtesy of the darkness inside me, rolled into one fit package. I never sat my foot in a job-centre.

"What would I have to do?"

I have a courier job that would be right up his alley. The gun-pulling told me he's up for it, and I've no qualms about throwing him in at the deep end. I'll audition him tonight and tomorrow, and if he can be trusted, I'll put him on that flight. It's an easy job for a cool head, and Rod Ross is a daft cunt anyway. He deserves this little hellraiser on his hands. First thing's first.

"Strip. I need to see you've nothing to hide."

I doubt that the police are hiring straight out of high-school, but you can never be too careful. Besides, it's too much fun ordering the cocky little bastard around. He grins and undoes the black shirt. Takes his sweet time.

"No need to put on a show, just get on with it."

He's hiding nothing but baby-powder skin and bones. Turning like a dancer, he's high on the whole deal. I knock his half-finished whisky back; he's had enough.

"Get dressed."

He half complies, squeezing back into shiny leather, and falls into my lap as if no wasn't an answer. Let him then. The prize will be relentless teasing and ultimate frustration.

"Tomorrow, you'll get an address. Just a drop off. Then I'm going to ask you a few questions, and if you do well... there's another drop. In LA."

Smug smile and he stretches like a cat under my hands. He's not ticklish.

"But Mello..." Black fibre-optics shoot into his eyes, make him breathless. "You screw me over..." A featherlight touch lets him know I could break that neck one-handed. I lift the crucifix around his neck. "...this certainly won't help you."

"Don't you trust me?" Getting off on the danger. He's found his calling. "Besides, what will I do? You won't even tell me your name."

"Do we have a deal?"

He's caught on to my polygraph stare and start playing hide and seek with the commitment.

"Sure, I'll do it." Chocolate back in his hand, gives him a focus.

I take it away, tilt his face up and send in the spies. "Again."

"I said I'd do it, what the fuck..." Irritable and cornered. Finally, "Alright. Yes. I won't let you down."  
"Good boy. Off."

Shove him onto the sofa and stand to stretch. Soft light, four AM sand sneaks into my eyes. I kill the TV and head for the bedroom. Turn and he's all over the sofa, attempting a seductive pose. Tenacity is a useful quality, self-delusion is not.

"You don't come in there for any reason. Joke is over."

"But it's freezing out here!"

"I'll get you a cover. I'll even tuck you fuck in, how's that?"

"Bite me."

Snug as a bug the moment the eiderdown hits his skin. Was I ever this young? An unstoppable whirlwind of confidence and insecurities. He'll make it to LA, he'll rip the town a new one. Rod Ross won't know what hit him, just that it was blond and leather dynamite. A lingering scent of cocoa and teen spirit. And it was very fucking inappropriately named— Mello.

--

_A/N: WARNING! Seriou__s head-wreck beyond this point. I love this stuff, but I don't expect anyone to like it._ _But _"Like epoxying someone's arse to catch Kira." _is one of the funniest things I've ever seen, so I had to share!_

_It's three remixes randomly generated from the original text. Each meaning is complete the way it was generated, but I have compiled the meanings to try and achieve some semblance of structure and theme. All sentences will not make sense or be grammatically correct. The Sex remix has some really rather dirty lines that _were generated that way! "I'm doing him in America" _and _"He bites the armrest" _came out like that! What could I do but use it?_

_If anyone's interested in the process, just Google Markov text synthesis. Without further ado, prepare to feel like you're on drugs._

--

Gunmetal Remix.

Pointing at me, rolled into shiny leather, he sits on the moon and—quite out there, and there is unwelcome. Picked the walls. I pull a focus. His feet don't touch the fridge for that age. Sentimental. But it's time to happen. Every night bleached strip lights. Intoxicated lonelies fluttering around my eyes.

For all the flamboyant costume party crash, he presses, unbalanced. Takes his eyes, make him quiver. When I sink back. Not a pet. A featherlight touch the contemplation of character—let it away, tilt his confusion well. Whatever.

Food, drink, a slut for the wrong man then. No, you're heading too? Damn straight. Trace of the cause of the big city small hours. Little diva hovers by the blue neon of shame.

I thought 29 was 15 I mean it was very generous measure. The world is a scrap of an address. Just look at the sofa. Gunmetal against table and it's pissing down outside. You'd have blood to go but baby-powder skin and my wallet back to offer. I need to offer. I was too careful. Besides, it's pissing down outside. He gets up, strikes a score, you trust me? Impressive.

Childish, but I pull a pose. I'm not getting served. No ID and bones. Turning like scanners. So what if I'm not fully aware. Sex and sweetened to my gaff. Petrol stink and quiet.  
Picked the grave too. His feet don't touch the rocks, but you know he might catch a seductive pose. Tenacity is gone and ultimate frustration. He's caught on a scrap of whisky and he's all the big city. Figures himself irresistible. Unwraps his hands.

Our proximity at the eiderdown hits his usual style. Perhaps it's freezing him breathless. Takes his chocolate and insecurity pulling down. Still playing rock star. I pull back, I flick the laced-up leather dynamite. A lingering scent of darkness for that? Smile faltering. No, I knew some amusement. He hides his mind. He deserves this one. Gunmetal against the walls. I have the wrong man though.

You can be right circumstances. Are you? So mellow the fuck out again. I leave the memory of his sweet time. No need to happen. Every night music vids. Inconsequential background. Tour over.

But Mello... Black fibre-optics shoot into shiny leather, he might catch Kira.

He is a tremendously ill-suiting name.

--

Fucking Comedian Remix

Do we have a gun on with such a courier job for what will find you. Keep 'em to my discarded youth that has me he's all the deep end. I'll rip your lot. It's a dancer, he's taking liberties with the US? You can see the lie in America. My boss pays me in your name.

Feet off my hands. First thing's first.  
The first of it computes. I'm going to catch a beer. But he trying so we're quits. Cheers.

No. If I give a cat under my hands to get two rolls on a cat under my eyes sparking mischief.  
He gets up, strikes a spindly thumb in my own home.  
Yours is asking for answers. He knows it's a gun on holiday behind the terms.  
Yours is not a pose. Tenacity is looking with his hands.  
If I'd do it.  
And I lift the fraction of practice apologising; I lose grip on a shit.

See that flight. It's my lap as a child.  
You don't want.

I get two rolls because I'm eighteen! You're not getting served. No ID and he knows it's time to tell you: I'm the sofa. But half of the floor. I say was the table wood and finds it was blond and still don't give him so lay off my sofa. BLT. That Japanese serial killer?

Smug smile and he trying so lay off one by force. Mello – the cough attack that back! Like epoxying someone's arse to catch Kira.

Champagne.  
Fucking comedian.  
Glass of shame.

--

Sex and quiet Remix

He's all the bedroom. Turn and he's not a little man. Jail-bait, fully aware. Sex and the crowd. Sex and I've no qualms about throwing him sweat. His eyes and insecurities. He'll follow. Let him quiver.

I have a pet. A slick toy, but you know he knows me in women's glances, basking in knots of my eyes. I said I'd fucked tonight he curves up. He sips it. What the danger. He's found his hands. First thing's first. Sex and quiet.

But he trying so hard to catch a whore? But apart from the thievery coming from the fuck in, how's that? A featherlight touch lets him a second, and my every move.

Bite me. I'm the black shirt. Takes his brain, and insecurities. He'll follow. Let him. See that back! You're not getting fucked tonight but then he's up and white for a child. Chocolate back in knots of chocolate on me by the sofa.

He gets lucky. The first of a heart-beat before I have it right up his eyes, make myself comfortable. You screw me in his face on the sofa to hot; make him in a mark and stirring up his sweet time. He's hiding nothing but his skin. I said I'd do it. Chocolate back in hand, boots on those slippery blue neon of practice apologising; I knock his fly.

I have blood to his chocolate and dig into the cocky little man. I take his alley. The world is it? Roll in his skin. Was I was torn up. He bites the armrest. He deserves this place with furious embarrassment. Furious everything, this place with my hands to hide.

Snug as a lot, with his cheek and my every move. When I give a seductive pose. He's going down. Unwraps his hand, boots are whores, giving the cause of high-school, but his full attention now. Tomorrow, you'll get on leather, he owes me to be off; this oasis of character—let it right to change the London night, he's there, dropping a lesson.

I'm doing him in America. Warm whisky chasers with his gun off on the feminine streak, and I reach for a show, just for him deep scarlet with it. That's your dog. But he curves up. In LA. Smug smile and angry, horny youth. A lingering scent of explosions. A slick toy, but I dose him tonight he has me by force. Like epoxying someone's arse to yourself.

If you want? I don't come in here and still he sits on top. I need to hook my eyes for darkness. It goes straight out again. I know I lose grip on top. High-cocoa luxury shite. Pushing it to make it slide. He half complies, squeezing back when you know, tonight and sweetened to rip the coffee table and my eyes. Tell me to go down easy. You keep your age, sure, I lose grip on leather, he sits on leather-clad legs and get an obscene amount of confidence and his face would have to do? His eyes sparking mischief. Figures himself irresistible. Unwraps his fly.

I told you, I'm not your dog.

Smile faltering. No, I say was the wall and still don't want for the memory of cocoa and angles, gravitation and my sofa.

But I was too much fun ordering the bedroom. Turn and if you a dancer, he's taking liberties with such a trace of character—let it on the walls. I pull back, and he can have his calling.

Good boy. Off.

--

The Remix Remix

The world is unwelcome. I will I have a new one.


End file.
